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Here’s the thing. All women in New York arewarriors.
Hell, womeneverywhere.
It’s not about the industry you work in or how you do your hair or even if you like to hook up on a first date. It’s about the fact that the deck is stacked against you, but you get up every day, ready to meet the challenge head-on.
Today? I only have one option to make it twenty blocks by fivethirty.
I run forit.
I hit a contact on my phone on theway.
“Stanisky and Byrne,” the perky voicesays.
“It’s her daughter,” I pant. “Can you put methrough?”
The phone rings again, this time to the privateline.
I’m forced by a light to pull up, and I try to get hold of my wheezing as I check the time. 5:10p.m.
“My credit card was declined,” I say, trying to keep my voicelevel.
“Did you overspend?” my mother’s sharp voicedemands.
“I’ve been paying my own bills since college. But I forgot the card was in Dad’sname.”
“Some of our joint accounts are being changed around.” She sighs. “This is the first you’ve called in weeks, and you’re calling aboutmoney.”
I don’t point out that she didn’t see me for weeks on end when I was in college in Philly or when I worked at a record label there for two years aftergraduating.
The light’s about to change, and I dash across early, just missing being hit by a cab. The driver honks, and I hold up a hand. The taco-level anxiety clicks up anothernotch.
“I’m working on my career. I have my own life. I’m a grown-up,” I insist as I run down the street in heels that were not designed for the sprint or the marathon, trying not to throw up lunch from my bubbling volcano of astomach.
“God knows what you’re doing when we don’t see you,” she goes on as if I didn’tspeak.
I think you meanwhoI’mdoing.
I realize too late I’ve said it outloud.
“What am I supposed to tell my friends when they ask aboutyou?”
I can see the building from here, and I nearly collapse in relief. I rub my nose, which is itchy from sweat, as I lunge across the final cross street to mydestination.
“You mean because I’m not running a company or refurbishing a heritage house in Southampton with my high school boyfriend? I don’t know, Mom. But don’t worry about me. I have a job, and I’m good at it. And as for love? Love is easy. You can find it in a million people every day. For an hour, a night, whatever you need. It’s notcomplicated.”
I’m regretting the outburst almost immediately. But all she says before hanging up is, “Some things aren’t meant to be easy. Someday you’ll learnthat.”
I jam the phone in my bag and pick my way through stopped cabs at the final intersection, lifting the hem of my shirt enough to fan mystomach.
She wants me to date someone, but she doesn’t want me to sleep around. The hypocrisy’s thicker than Cronutdough.
Pulling up in front of the building, I bend over double, bracing my hands on my knees for a heady moment before forcing myself through the glassdoors.
It’s 5:20 p.m. when I get up to their receptionist and ask forBrad.
“I’m sorry. He’s gone for theday.”
“Gone,” I echo. “He said he’d be here until five thirty. Does he have a cell you could giveme?”
